


Push Your Head Towards The Air

by ArcheaMajuar



Category: Agatha Christie's Poirot (TV), Poirot - Agatha Christie
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Episode Related, Episode: s02e06 Double Sin, First Kiss, Friends to Lovers, M/M, POV Hastings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-18
Updated: 2019-10-22
Packaged: 2020-12-22 19:22:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,403
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21081803
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArcheaMajuar/pseuds/ArcheaMajuar
Summary: “Are you angry with me, mon ami?”I quivered once I grasped the meaning of his words, once I detected the insecurity which Poirot voiced them with, and only then I succeeded in getting all of my rage under control.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [coldlikedeath](https://archiveofourown.org/users/coldlikedeath/gifts), [cricri](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cricri/gifts).
  * A translation of [Push Your Head Towards The Air](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19241425) by [ArcheaMajuar](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArcheaMajuar/pseuds/ArcheaMajuar). 

> English is not my mother tongue as I'm from the Czech Republic. There are mistakes in the story, I know, but I just don't have anyone around to give me their feedback on the fic, grammar and so on (but if you'd like to let me know about the mistakes, please, do so in the comments or just send me an email (you find it on my profile page), it'd be much appreciated)
> 
> I'm really sorry for the errors, but I hope you'll enjoy this work anyway :)
> 
> The title comes from a song called Push Your Head Towards The Air by Editors whose songs go surprisingly well with this fandom...

I certainly appreciated we got a case. I was well-aware that I would not have ever be capable of solving it myself because the snare was far too elaborate for me to see through it, though I at most welcomed the distraction it provided me with. The case was exactly what I needed to occupy my mind, and to stop me from worrying about thoughts of a different nature… Of the thoughts caused by feelings which had struck me hard before we had commenced our journey - in other words, before Poirot had announced he was taking me to the sea, and of course, not even troubling himself with asking me whether I was interested.

However, why would I decline his offer when having literally nothing of importance to do anyway?

_What could I possibly busy myself with? _

_Well, there was always my favourite golf club and on Saturday, I might attend a racecourse, but that would be it,_ I mused, partly amused, partly bitter, but then I remembered that I should focus on the play instead of dwelling on my leisure activities.

I had to talk Poirot into seeing this particular thing as he was not, indeed, eager to leave the apartment, calling this comedy a waste of time, yet in the end, he yielded once I smartly mentioned I was willing to pay for the both of us.

To be honest, I suspected my friend from accepting the invitation because he wanted to please me rather than due to the irresistibility of my proposal, but after all, I was quite excited about his unforeseen consent, which brought another reason to feel guilty for not enjoying the play. Yes, I coveted to see it as I had heard it was most humorous, but now I could surely expect Poirot reprimanding me for dragging him out of his comfortable apartment, moreover, during a very chilly day, and then be so ungrateful and not having fun over such on obscure theatrical peace.

Resolutely, I opted for listening to the dialog, and honestly, for a few minutes I was amused by the social interactions among the character, but once my dear friend made a quiet mocking sound in the back of his throat, my grey brain cells lost interest in the play and I turned my eyes to the ingenious Belgian. In the same second, my stomach seemed to be grasped by a stone cold hand upon my remembrance of the words Poirot had uttered some time ago.

Dreading the possibility that Poirot could catch me staring, I immediately fixed my gaze on the stage again. A sigh of resignation left my lungs as I accepted the inevitable fact that I was not in a state to fully appreciate the play I, indeed, wanted to attend.

Partly flowing on the stream of thoughts, partly having my mind empty like my oddly hollow heart, I suffered throughout the rest of the performance. Quite awkwardly I also happened to miss the right moment for the applause as I did not even notice when the curtain fell down. By the corner of my eye I peeked in Poirot’s direction. He was bestowing me with a slightly inquisitive glance, his eyebrows raised.

There was no place for doubts that my inattentiveness did not slip his brilliantly smart eyes, I thought gloomily, annoyed already by the image of Poirot, constantly reminding me my ingratitude, yet… Yet my lips twitched in a weak parody of a smile as I realized Poirot’s future scolding did not burden me as it might have, and definitely not today as I was adamant my worries were of such serious matter and they deserved my attention more than any play in the world.

However, I could not believe my conclusion was wrong. Poirot actually did not mention my condition whatsoever. Yes, we shared a couple of comments on the play, which my friend, of course, found quite dull, but he seemed to be almost satisfied with my laconic assent. It unsettled my soul as it was suggesting Poirot comprehended my emotional state correctly. He had probably assumed I struggled with something quite serious.

On one hand, I welcomed he did not press me into confession, on the other hand I was not in mood to genuinely grasp his considerate approach. Gradually a realization crept into my mind. The realization of the terrifying amount of wrath, accumulated within me and pointed towards Poirot.

Yes, I was angry with him, though I had no idea why. Well, that was not entirely true as I suspected the reason, but I did not understand... I… I could not comprehend that I, Arthur Hastings, felt an unadulterated wrath towards my best friend.

I possessed an impression that nothing of similar peculiarity had occurred on the British land that year.

The acknowledgement plunged me in awe. I halted in the middle of a corridor, staring blankly into nowhere till the crowd of rushing people jostled me out of the theatre. The journey passed without my notice as reality struck me only when my lungs inhaled achingly chilly air of a December evening. Blinking rapidly I recomposed myself and looked around while my arms were fumbling and trying to find their way through the sleeves of my coat. Once I laid my gaze upon Poirot, waiting patiently for me yonder, I ventured in his direction.

“Here you are,” curled Poirot’s mouth in a warm smile. “You have me worried that the crowd walked all over you, mon ami.”

“I say, such behaviour is just preposterous,” I completely foresaw his concern even if exaggerated. “A man would think that the higher class folk would depart a theatre graciously and with a sure level of dignity, but this madness resembled a stampede of a herd of wacky elephants, being urged into motion by hunters.”

“But, my dear Hastings, in this case it cannot be spoken of the hunters as of some imaginary sticks, n'est-ce pas?” suggested my friend while his sharp eyes watched my poor attempt to straighten my collar to protect my neck from the unpleasantly cold wind. “In this case, a carrot was the key.”

“Carrot?” left me Poirot’s inquiry in utter darkness.

“A carrot and a stick, mon ami. A method old as the whole mankind. People are different and, of course, they require different motivations for their behaviour, and, as you said, these higher class people were urged into movement by the notion of an enjoyable rest of the evening. Preferably enriched by a glass, or maybe two glasses, of some delicious beverage,” explained Poirot his train of thoughts. “Or have you perhaps noticed ushers with sticks, chasing the visitors out of the theatre?”

A prior I managed to come up with an answer, Poirot’s features, soft with amusement, hardened a bit with serious curiosity.

“However, I expect you would not notice such a thing because of your current frame of mind, mon ami,” mirrored his dark eyes a question which I did not covet to answer, thus I averted my look, skimming through what was happening in the street.

My friend did not press further at the moment, yet I had not doubts he would touch on the topic several times during the time we would spend together, and in the end, I would yield. It was hard not to tell the truth under the piercing gaze of Poirot’s bright brown eyes which had always made me feel like he was able to see right into my soul.

“If you excuse me, Poirot, I shall call it a day,” intervened my common sense earlier than I had a chance to change my mind

“You will not accept my invitation to a cup of tea?” bore Poirot’s voice a hint of something others would perceive as surprise, but in my eyes, he was only mocking me.

“I am afraid, I will not,” I shook my head, literally forcing myself to look in Poirot’s eyes in which the unmistakable amusement was partly hidden behind the mask of astonishment, and still, there was space left for a decent amount of care. Yes, underneath the charade, Poirot, indeed, cared about my well-being, however, I was not in a state to be flattered by it. On the contrary, I felt even more enraged by his inability to honestly express his sincere emotions. “As you have correctly suggested, I’m not very attentive this evening, which I must agree with. For I would not make a congenial companion, I’d rather opt for heading to my place.”

“As you wish,” nodded Poirot after a minor hesitation. “But I reckon, you are underestimating yourself, my dear Hastings.”

The last bit of the sentence took me aback. For a while I was merely staring at Poirot, aspiring at sorting out the meaning behind his words, though as I failed in my endeavours, I capitulated. Too tired to prolong any conversations, I left the ambiguity fade away from my mind and said my goodbye, turning away from Poirot and striding in the direction of my flat.

Well, my flat… It served as an occasional refuge because I, indeed, could not say I tended to dwell there for lengthy periods of time. Usually, I was spending nights in a spare room Poirot had offered me in the past. He was not using it, moreover, he even refurnished it to create a splendid bedroom for me in case that our detective work would last till midnight.

However, there was no point in insisting that I was sleeping in Poirot’s spare room only when the aforementioned condition was met. I slept there quite regularly as I could not force myself to return to my almost empty flat, considering that on numerous occasions, Poirot had assured me I was always welcomed at his place, and it had been a long time ago when I dropped the guilt from exploiting his hospitality. I simply made peace with the fact I became his flatmate. Still… Still I was apt to visit my own flat at least twice a week to console my consciousness.

Upon my arrival to the door of my flat, I experienced a powerful impulse to run away. What was awaiting me inside? Peace, quiet, and emptiness. Two things of these I could relish, but the emptiness seemed daunting. Yes, the emptiness of the flat was terrifying as well as the hollowness expanding within my soul, hollowness which I desperately tried to fill with passion and adrenalin that could be brought about by a hunt for a thief.

With sheer anguish I unlocked the door and entered. Not wasting a second, I walked into the living room where I halted in front of a small table. A bottle of brandy was standing there together with two glasses. I took one of them and poured myself an admirable amount of the alcoholic beverage, yet I gushed it all on one go. The most disturbing thing about this whole act was that I did not even consider doing anything else like… like having a drink was the only option there.

However, the heat of alcohol pleasantly burned in my throat, then spread lower and finally reached even my toes. I shivered mildly. It felt quite nice as a hot wave washed over my body, tempting me to have another shot, but I guessed that one was enough to ease the pain from being so empty as… as even a single glass of brandy unleashed a flood of emotions I had kept restricted for far too long.

Once I slumped into an armchair, anger accompanied by sorrow came back to me with enhanced intensity, making my heart cry with dull ache. The silence stretching in the room only encouraged me in turning the matter over and over in my head, luring me to plunge into the abyss of hurt and sadness. Nobody could see me, nobody could witness my suffering.

I was alone.

I sighed tiredly as the fact that I was currently alone stung badly, which annoyed me. As soon as I abandoned Poirot I… I already missed him. I missed his company, but…

_I should not feel irritated by it_, I reprimanded myself because I knew that my friend missed me, too, though maybe not to the same extent I missed him.

Sighing again, my mind happened to be overwhelmed by the words Poirot had told me… the words connected to our friendship, the words that were the main cause of my present frame of mind in which I had no idea what to do, what to say…

At first, I let Poirot’s remark subside, not giving it any significant meaning as Poirot could be quite garrulous while I was usually able to follow only some parts of his speech. However, his tone, the look in his eyes… The memory was still vivid, still painful.

_You have friends, a brilliant career… _

_No, no, mon ami… I have nothing. Poirot is finished. _

His intention to retire fortunately did not last long, but the resolute denial of having something to live for, of having friends… It hurt more that I had wished to admit. I tried to convince myself that he did not mean it, uttering it under the heavy weight of circumstances, but the doubts had already sneaked into my mind, into my heart.

I folded my face into my hands as I found myself on the verge of tears. My chest ached and there was nobody to witness my breakdown, yet I refused to submit to my emotions that easily. I was ashamed of it, of my feelings, and also of myself, however, those were not the reasons which I would cry so hard for… 

If Poirot had not reciprocated my feelings, I would have made peace with it. I would have accepted everything he would be willing to offer, moreover, I would have sacrificed anything what I had left, but… but I was not able to deal with such a thought that Poirot would not allow himself to admit I could have feelings for him… That he would suffer only due to his caution, to the fear from being rejected, therefore he strove to perceive me just as somebody who is a good friend to him, but who would eventually abandon him.

That he was continually bracing himself from the day during which our paths were bound to part without… without considering a fact that leaving was the last thing I would have ever wanted.

Sadly, all of those were my humble guesses, furthermore, rather bold and self-centred guesses, and to be completely honest, I had never excelled in making accurate assumptions. Still, they seemed quite real to me… 

Well, why would Poiron say it then? Why would he question having any friends? At least he had a friend in me who was constantly at his side in spite of Poirot’s sometimes quite annoying demeanour like being too arrogant, petty or obnoxiously secretive. And that was the point when my anger towards Poirot was fuelled once again as I realized he left me stumbling in the dark again, keeping the reason behind his defeatist words to himself.

I had learnt to tolerate this habit of his, though in the moment when he doubted my loyalty, the true nature of my affection for him… In such moment I could not ignore it.

Why could not he just ask for my reassurance? I would have ensured him I was eager to stay with him, to keep him company as long as he would need it, yet deep down I knew that he would have never begged for such thing.

My lips curved into a bitter smile which I started to be accustomed to.

Palming my eyes tiredly, I sighed a little bit louder. My breath was quivering, throat tight, however, the fog faded away from my mind, allowing me to think more clearly. And to admit that I was utterly lost in the situation that I was clueless how to deal with, and… and in such situations I had always asked Poirot to cast some light on the issue.

_I suppose, I cannot avoid it_, I mused in resignation. _If I ever wanted to know the answer, I would be obliged to visit Poirot_.

Only the single thought of seeing my friend again set a bunch of conflicting emotions on fire within my soul, and it perfectly mirrored my current attitude towards the detective.

On one hand, I was looking forward to find myself in Poirot’s charming presence, on the other hand, I was scared to death because… because of my strong affection for him, because of my vanishing willingness to conceal it, to hide it, and… and not to reveal my feeling to him in the instant. My feelings… yes, my feelings of two kinds… the honourable ones, and the others, all of them emerging from my pain and confusion, mingling together into one by love and hopelessness inflamed wrath.


	2. Chapter 2

Courage to confront Poirot about his words was not something I acquired right away. A few following days saw me not even daring to spend much time with him, which steadily escalated into me avoiding him. I hoped it was not that obvious as I stayed in his apartment during breakfast, discussing potential cases together, but quite curiously Poirot was in one of his mood when every call for his service did not occur worthy of his attention. The cases seemed blunt, so he did not accept any of them, sentencing me to occupy my mind with not really pleasant images.

I would not usually mind loitering at Poirot’s place, reading newspaper on his sofa, but suddenly the silence stretching between us troubled me. As we did not have any case at our hands and Poirot did not need me to accompany him, I guessed my frequent walks were not that suspicious, and at first, they probably were not. Poirot was not objecting in the slightest as he merely speak to me, too busy with his thoughts regarding who-knows-what.

However, during one of my strolls, coincidently ten days after our visit of the theatre, I ended up fed up with myself being such a coward. Indeed, I could not look in my own eyes anymore, and I loathed all those excuses I was coming up with to justify why not to confess to Poirot and to commence our conversation on the topic that was eating my soul up alive. My own inability to gather enough courage to face him worn me out, and subsequently it nourished my anger which gradually reached the surface, successfully fighting my endeavours to keep it hidden.

The last straw happened to be a situation during which a very fine gentleman bumped into me, apologizing immediately, yet I scolded him for being a duffer.

_I do not tend to be so rude,_ I thought bemusedly as I was pacing towards Whitehaven Mansions. I was nervous, naturally, but with each step my determination grew. Hunger for information, for knowledge of where I am standing in Poirot’s eyes urged me into movement, bringing me at least an ounce of satisfaction with myself as I finally decided to act.

_In the end, it was not all only about me, but also about Poirot,_ an idea crossed my mind when I was climbing up the stairs. _It was also about Poirot, considering my theory was not entirely wrong. _

My need to learn the truth disposed me of all doubts, only urging me forward.

At the door to Poirot’s flat I almost collided with Miss Lemon, which caught me off guard as I did not expect her to be there at such time.

“Oh, don’t be so surprised, Captain Hastings,” she gave me an ironic glare, casting me even into a deeper state of utter confusion. “I stayed longer to keep an eye on Mr Poirot. He has just refrained from retiring and now he’s in one of his gloomy moods again! And you’re constantly God-knows-where!”

“But we didn’t have a case, so I…” I protested weakly, but my voice trailed off at the cold within Miss Lemon’s eyes.

“And why is that?” Her otherwise melodic tone was unpleasantly sharp, but she managed to get her anger under control, speaking up again more gently, “I don’t mean to suggest what you should or shouldn’t do for Mr Poirot, but I got the impression that you’ve been failing recently at being a good friend to him.”

Her words caused me a painful throb of guilt and I knew she had a point. My stomach turned upside down, my throat tightened, making it quite difficult to breathe properly. I had to swallow, lowering my gaze for a moment, recomposing myself, before I answered:

“I… I reckon you are right,” and nodding, I assured her, “I’m going to see him now.”

“Well, you definitely ought to,” agreed Miss Lemon with my intention, apparently struggling to hide a smile that finally splayed upon her lips, reaching up to her eyes, suddenly looking at me quite fondly. “He misses you…”

“D-does he?” I stuttered out without thinking, feeling out of breath, my spirits revived at once.

“Of course,” laughed Miss Lemon in her melodic voice. “Where have you been the past years?” Shaking her head disbelievingly, she passed me by, said her goodbye and headed for the stairs where I still rather perplexedly stared after her.

I was not sure what I was so baffled by, but in a few seconds I just waved it off with a hasty conclusion that I simply did not know how to react to such a remark when pointed out by somebody else. Returning my attention to my former intention, I found myself standing in front of the door that was left ajar. I pushed it open, making my way into Poirot’s apartment, and while closing the door behind me, I did it in such manner that it would be audible, yet not too much as I did not mean to startle my dear friend.

I took my time to disrobe my coat, so once I finally looked towards Poirot’s office, the detective was already aware of my presence, glaring at me searchingly from between the door frame.

“Good evening, old thing,” I attempted a meek smile despite knowing Poirot was not going to be fooled by it.

“Good evening, Hastings,” nodded Poirot, breaking the eye contact and turning back into his office. “What took you so long?”

His tone went right in my stomach, punching it with a cold fist. Poirot did not seem angry or upset, no… But his voice was bearing a hint of accusation like… like he questioned the reason why I came at all, which hurt me painfully much. Despite that, I entered the room with my chin up, seating myself on an armchair next to Poirot’s desk.

“Would you like something to drink?” could not Poirot help himself not to be an attentive host.

“I’d rather not, but thank you very much,” I gave him another hesitant smile, receiving just a curt nod in reply.

_I must’ve made a blunder much huger than I’ve thought_, I realized ruefully. I felt like an utter scoundrel for avoiding Poirot, for leaving him alone so abruptly without explanation, but somewhere deep inside of my soul I… I was pleased with myself for manoeuvring Poirot into tasting his own medicine.

Outright I was ashamed of my own thoughts, heat reaching up my cheeks, though I did not avert my gaze from Poirot because his behaviour, indeed, intrigued me. He was pacing the room, apparently being out of sorts as he suddenly stopped at the door, then he halted at the window, and then he stood in front of me, looking at me with a mixture of dismay within his features before he turned away, striding in the opposite direction.

I did not like the glance he bestowed me with as… as it occurred to me like one given to a complete alien.

Poirot’s nervousness was quite obvious, and also very rare. On the other hand, the fact that he appeared to be so anxious right upon my arrival inspired my courage. If such a brilliant man, if the greatest detective of Europe was experiencing nervousness, then why could not I, just an ordinary Englishman, feel the same way?

“I’ve been intending to have a rather serious conversation with you,” I said in a firmer voice than I had hoped to be capable of. My boldness might have surprised even Poirot who had stopped at the window for a moment, and now he half-turned to me, his eyes sparkling with mild interest, which heartened me immensely.

“What is it, mon ami? Is there something that is troubling you?” he asked matter-of-factly, but his eyes failed him as they divinely mirrored the huge amount of care for me. My heart throbbed at the sight of it.

My lips curved into a subtle smile while I was once again reminded of how much I cherished his presence, how much I enjoyed simply watching him work, how much I…

Under the weight of shame that flooded me, I dropped my gaze to the floor, cheeks burning like I was freshly seventeen-years-old, asking my first girl on a date. The reason why exactly that parallel crossed my mind I did not even bother to wonder about.

“Well, yes… I…” I coughed to clear my throat while I was trying to find a way how to put it. “Firstly, I reckon, it would be at most appropriate to apologize for my recent behaviour because I… I… was struggling… struggling to make up my mind.”

“Is that so?” he said and I noticed a nuance of sarcasm within his words. Usually it would not affect my temper much, yet today I was low on patience.

“Will you stop it, please?” I barked at him, unable to curb my anger anymore, but regretting my harshness immediately as Poirot’s expression underwent an instant change. Shock mingled with hurt that was subsequently forged into all revealing concern.

Shutting my eyes, I let my face fall into my open hands. My self-control was slipping through my fingers as it had been so for a long time in Poirot’s presence. I was sitting there motionless, rapid heartbeat thundering under the thin skin of my temples, my throat was tight, heart aching and chest bursting with anguish. I felt a tempting urge to break something to ease the tension, to unleash my wrath…

“You are angry, Hastings,” Poirot stated after a while, and apparently he did not even try not to sound astonished.

Yes, indeed, he was astonished, but I was awfully more wounded by the hurt splayed across his face, which went straight into my bleeding heart. Who could have guessed it was going to be so hard? Of course, I did not expect it to be easy, though suddenly I happened to be thrown back to the end of my tether like I was in my apartment. Again, I was barely keeping it together as the years spent in denial of my feelings started to take its toll on me and… and it did not strike me as surprising.

“Are you angry with me, mon ami?”


	3. Chapter 3

“Are you angry with me, mon ami?”

I quivered once I grasped the meaning of his words, once I detected the insecurity which Poirot voiced them in, and only then I succeeded in getting all of my rage under control. I looked up to search for the pair of bright brown eyes, observing me and my every reaction, every movement within my features. By that moment I lost every chance of hiding anything from him. Poirot’s gaze was fixed upon my face and I had all of his attention, which, despite severity of the situation, somewhat pleased me.

“Yes, indeed, I am,” I conceded honestly. “But I’m angry with myself, too…” Hesitating, I turned my look away from my friend before I managed to continue, “Because as usual, I didn’t gather something you’ve said.”

“And what was that, Hastings?” Poirot raised his eyebrows as his curiosity took over, yet his care for me remained visible within the warmth of his eyes. “What have I said?”

Despite my reluctance to believe he had no idea what I was talking about (simply because Poirot has always had at least the subtlest notion), but his expression really seemed clueless.

“Do you recall that one particular rainy afternoon when you expressed your intention of retiring?” I asked him, providing him with a hint of what I was driving at.

“Oui, mon ami,” replied my friend in affirmation, frowning a little as his little grey cell endeavoured to reconstruct the memory of the day that shook me to the bones, leaving me sad and hollow.

However, my patience was still running quite low, so I did not wait for him to remember, speaking up again a bit hoarsely, “Your intention of retiring I countered with an assurance that you have a beautiful apartment, brilliant career, and also…”

“Loyal friends,” finished Poirot my utterance. He saw my point and his eyes met mine, the intensity of recognition in them took my breath away. “Yes, Hastings, I recall the afternoon. And I also recall that I dismissed your attempts to sway my mind.”

I nodded while a vast emptiness echoed in my chest, but soon it was filled with tension whose origin occurred to be a mystery to me. I did not dread Poirot’s reaction, not at all, yet I sensed the stakes of this conversation were rather higher than I had been willing to admit. Maybe that was the reason for my breathlessness being intact again once Poirot left his place at the window, walking around the desk in order to face me.

“I have hurt you, n'est-ce pas?” said Poirot softly, a wealth of emotion lay behind the uttered words, and something within my chest squeezed, making me exhale shakily. With my eyes buried into his brown depths, I absent-mindedly nodded, at once ignorant to the possibility of feeling vulnerable before him. “I most sincerely apologize for what I have said, mon ami, even though I am aware that my regret will not make you forget it. I simply did not realize how it could affect you, Hastings. I was… so absorbed by my own thoughts, self-pity, and also grief that at some point I’m going to lose you…”

“But…” I interjected in a hasty attempt of persuading him I was not going anywhere. “But I do not intend to abandon you!”

For a few seconds Poirot was only looking at me, his face a mixture of sorrow and wisdom. I did not press further as I knew he was pondering what he was going to tell me, so I opted for a quiet observation of my friend, during which I began slowly figuring out that I could have been right with my assumptions. Well, I was not particularly cheerful about it as… as just thinking of Poirot’s suffering reopened my wounds.

My friend put some distance between us, but then he came back to me, bracing his small back with the edge of his desk, eyes pointed forward. Standing so close to me, a shiver ran down my spine, moreover, I was leaning over my knees; therefore Poirot was mere inches away from me. The rest of my self-control was spent on refraining from leaning even more forward, leaning into him…

“Have not you even considered marriage, Hastings?” threw me Poirot’s question back to reality, in which I glanced up to him, puzzled. “Would have not any of the auburn-haired ladies, you have been infatuated with, made a decent Mrs Hastings?” reformulated Poirot his inquiry, his eyes not leaving a spot somewhere on the other side of the room.

“Well, I say… I…” The words were not coming to my mind as I was quite occupied with the laid issue, but… “I’d say no… I’ve never really considered…”

“You have never considered leaving Poirot for a woman? For a marriage, for a splendid house in countryside, pour les enfants…?” Poirot did not let me finish, flashing me with a glance full of doubts, full of fear from the future, full of feelings… His eyes were serious and to me, they were the most beautiful ones I had ever seen.

“You have never intended to marry a woman while leaving old Poirot behind?”

“You’re not old…” I protested right away and Poirot’s featured softened, corners of his lips twitching upwards. It ensured me my response was the best I could have granted him with, but it was impossible for me to do otherwise. I could not stand my friend speaking of himself like this…

Completely failing in controlling my actions, I plunged into the devastating wave of the need, which filled me from the head to my very toes, the need to show Poirot how much I treasured him, to prove him that I was not going to abandon him, and to… to reveal how scary the idea of living without him appeared to me… All rational thoughts faded away from my mind as I gave in the calling of my feelings, planting my hand atop Poirot’s one, resting on the wooden desk.

“I have no intention of leaving you,” I repeated adamantly, our eye contact unyielding. Curiously, I got the feeling that I had never been so sure about anything in my whole life. “Not for a woman, not for a family. I’m only…” my voice dying in the back of my throat once my courage had been depleted, once I grasped to full extend what I craved to say.

I might have never expressed myself had not I acknowledged the anticipation written in Poirot’s every single feature. The intensity within his eyes sent trembles down my spine. I gulped, turning all pros and cons over and over in my head as the doubts whether Poirot truly knew what I wanted to say, whether he, indeed, was waiting for me to say it aloud, but… but the fondness in his eyes, the tentative smile… and then, as I happened to be dreaming the most beautiful dream, his palm underneath mine moved, and gradually turned upside down, so in a span of seconds his hand was clasping mine, squeezing gently.

Poirot held my hand while he was looking at me with tenderness glowing within his eyes, and it seemed too good to be true, therefore I right away dropped my gaze, feeling an unbearable need to actually see it, to see where we touched. My eyesight could not fool me, definitely not this time. Staring at our joined hands, something throbbed inside my chest, tears constricting my throat. All of my feelings towards Poirot awoken, sensing there was a possibility of reciprocation, I bravely managed to prevent myself from sobbing loudly, but a couple of tears made their way out.

Once I glanced at my friend, I learnt his eyes were trained on my burning cheeks, painted with wet tears. I watched as Poirot elegantly moved from his place at the desk, closing the distance between us, and then he raised his free hand, using his thumb to wipe one of the tears away. Touched by a such simple, yet breathtakingly sweet gesture, I was left a with completely blank mind which registered only the fact the Poirot’s hand remained upon my face. I… I could not resist him anymore.

Leaning into the touch, I closed my eyes, my exhale quivering.

“Mon cher, Hastings,” I heard him say quietly, inattentively drawing me to such a tempting conclusion that there was pure love behind his words, and that my friend could have loved me the same I loved him.

“Why are you doing this, mon ami?” asked Poirot, but he did not cease from caressing my cheek. “Why are you doing this just for one old Belgian…”

Poirot was not in awe as I noticed admiration in his tone. Yes, admiration and… and gratitude as… as he yearned to hear what I had said and…

_And he may need to hear something else_, I reminded myself before I opened my eyes, seeking Poirot’s brown depths which I had drown in years ago.

“I’m in love with you,” I said, my voice uneven just because of the delicacy of the spoken words. I had never even hoped I could have ever revealed them to him, that I would have ever found enough courage, but now… I had heard myself declaring them and I wanted to do it again. “I’m in love with you, my dear friend, and please… please do not question my feelings anymore.”

I swallowed to moist my dry throat at least a bit, my heart trying to jump out of my ribcage, yet I mastered my actions this time, forcing myself to ease my grip on Poirot’s hand. It must have been quite uncomfortable for him, being squeezed so tightly, however, despite that he did not complain with a single word. He opted only for staring at me in fascination, which would usually flatter me, though in this case I preferred him to react verbally.

“I will not then,” were his eyes blazing with affection. “For our own sake, I will not question your feelings anymore, Hasting, even though…” lost the detective some of his confidence, still, under my intent gaze, he provided me with an answer, “Even though it will not be so simple after I have quite foolishly assumed that you were coming here to bid me farewell.”

Compassion has been always one of my traits I rather valued and it showed also this time as I outright could see the world with Poirot’s eyes, understanding how unexpected the turn of events was for my friend. Stunned by the situation I got Poirot into, my mind reeled, desperately trying to find a way how to make it up to him…

“But this is completely my fault, Hastings,” put Poirot stop to my frantic chain of thoughts, then continued in his quiet, gentle voice, “How many times have I scolded you for being reckless, jumping to conclusions ever so quickly, and, as you see, bête Poirot made the same mistake himself.”

“It’s probably a human thing, I guess…,” I said, smiling and hopefully uplifting Poirot’s spirit, which was confirmed to me once Poirot caressed my cheek again. Savouring his touch, I closed my eyes, leaning into his hand. “Everyone jumps to conclusions time to time…”

My friend plunged into silence for a while, but as soon as I fixed my eyes upon him, his expression bore signs of curiosity.

“Tell me, mon ami, what have you anticipated that would happen today?” he asked in the softest of tones, and into my mind slipped an impression that I was free to decide whether I wanted to answer or not.

But there was nothing else to conceal.

“I was hoping that my convincing abilities would persuade you that my genuine intention is to stay at your side as long as you wish to,” I revealed in a grave tone, however, in the very next moment I experienced a remarkable weight shrugging off my shoulders, allowing me to breathe freely at once. “I believed that despite your obstinate nature I’d be able to convince you even if… even…” faded my voice away when the reality struck me in its full force, making me understand what I had already told Poirot.

“Even if it meant you’d have to reveal your deepest feelings,” added Poirot and I confirmed his guess with a silent nod. “It is not for the first time I feel obliged to admire your immense courage, mon cher Hastings.”

I felt so honoured every time Poirot appreciated anything I did, and as he was doing so at very rare occasions, I always treasured it dearly. Despite being aware of the rather complicated journey to reacquire my bravery, I beamed at him, my lips curving upwards at first, and then into a wide smile. Pleasant warmth settled within my chest while I mused over the possibility that my love towards Poirot still kept blossoming and growing, but as it had been supressed and ignored for such a formidably long period of time, it craved to be expressed by another way than by holding our hands. My love for Poirot was roaring within me, setting my skin on fire.

I struggled to remain sitting...

Our eye contact became so heated; I gulped and shivered once Poirot smiled with a hint of mischief that reached also his brown eyes.

“It appears your convincing abilities served you well, mon ami, but in case there is something else up in your sleeves, be certain I am most interested in being further subjected to your persuasive methods,” Poirot’s eyelids half-covered his eyes, his words only partly disclosing his point… The point I was quick to grasp. My blood boiling, the smile vanishing from my face as it was replaced by concentration and… and yes, by arousal that spectacularly mirrored within the depths of Poirot’s eyes.

My desire was joined by a sudden outburst of courage. The combination urged me out of the armchair, the movement swiftly decreasing the space between me and my friend to an absolute minimum. With the last ounce of hesitation I checked whether I had not been totally wrong about the situation, whether I was not seeing things, but as I was ensured that Poirot was looking at me with sheer anticipation, shivers went through my whole body, making my heart swell and my groin tingle with arousal.

The feelings were tremendously enhanced by the fact that I was, indeed, allowed to touch Poirot’s face, to caress his cheek as I dipped down and brushed my lips over Poirot’s.

My heart racing, I felt utterly happy when I kissed Poirot, when… when I was nonverbally asked to kiss Poirot.

Another blow for my self-control was that tiny whimper, escaping from between my friend’s lips once our mouths met, and my knees felt so weak the moment Poirot moved his palm from my face to my neck, grabbing me by the collar, holding me ever so close. Even without such gesture we were unbelievably close to each other, pressing our bodies together that not even a single sheet of paper would manage to fit between us….

To such extend I needed him, and to such extend he needed me.

As I was kissing him gently, softly, the greater was my surprise when Poirot answered with passion and he kissed me with pure hunger. It enthralled me extremely.

Still struggling to comprehend that all was happening, I quite reluctantly withdrew from Poirot’s lips, giving in the urge to observe with my own eyes the effects of my ministrations, in other words, I yearned to see Poirot, standing in front of me, desire written in every feature of his rounded face while his eyes were hazy and chaotic like I had never witnessed them before. Fascinated and breathless, I stared at him, trying to engrave the sight into my very brain.

“J’taime, Hastings,” used Poirot the second of silence and peace in his own way, for which he was rewarded with my cheerful smile while on the inside I was trembling with euphoria even though… even though I had already known it. Poirot had been expressing his deepest adoration for me by gestures and looks throughout the evening, but I could not deny that his words had somehow sealed the deal, preventing me from any future guesses. “In case you had been wondering… maybe doubting…”

“Not anymore, Poirot,” I shook my head, marvelling at the pleased spark that appeared in the brown depths. “Not anymore,” I repeated before bending down again in order to convince my dearest friend about my intentions despite him knowing them already perfectly well. After all, it was the most famous detective in Europe whom I was madly in love with…

When you fall and you,  
Can't find your way,  
Push a hand up to the sky.  
I will run just to,  
To be by your side,  
Don't you ever bat an eye.

Now don't drown in your tears, babe  
Push your head towards the air.  
Now don't drown in your tears, babe  
I will always be there

(Push Your Head Towards The Air by Editors)


End file.
